Title Censored
by Demented Vampiric Zombie
Summary: Yup, that's right, I've censored my title, here. The fic itself isn't bad, but I've rated it for language. It's just a little two-shot about Snape on the night Lord Voldemort returned.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: _FAN_fiction. 'Nuff said.**

**A/N**

**The proper title of this fic is "Fuck," but I censored it because of the site's rule about the title and summary of all fics being rated K. This chapter was actually read over by a friend. I would have had her read over the second chapter, as well, but I'm impatient and my internet access is kind of shoddy, right now (and by "shoddy" I mean 'nonexistent unless I carry my laptop about half a mile to sit on a bench on a public median thing in my neighborhood'). It's a two-shot and both chapters are already written and typed. I should be able to get the second part up right after I post this one, but it's always possible that something will happen to my internet connection and prevent that from happening, so if the second chapter isn't up, it will be soon.  
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><p><em>Fuck.<em>

The exact same word ran through my head for what had to be the millionth time in the last two hours. When I told the Old Fool about the Mark burning, he told me to wait until after the third task was over before answering the Dark Lord's call. I disagreed with his logic, but I had no choice but to comply with his order. If I had gone right away, it would have been easier. There wouldn't have been time for the panic to set in and I wouldn't have had to struggle with the Occlumency. If I couldn't get myself in check soon, I would have to take a Calming Draught, and the Dark Lord would certainly notice that something was off, then.

_Fuck._

I have known this was coming for almost a year, now, and I had thought I was prepared. But now that the moment had arrived, I was being plagued by the inevitable self-doubt. It had been nearly thirteen years since I had last felt Cruciatus, and the Dark Lord would certainly be using it. Both to test my loyalty, and to punish me for my tardiness. What if I had lost the ability to maintain Occlumency under Cruciatus in the years I had gone without using it? What if my body no longer had the strength to survive extended periods of torture? What if he didn't believe the lies I was going to tell him, even if my Occlumency was flawless? Did I even have a chance at living through this?

_Fuck._

I had never had so much trouble getting control of myself, before. Why was it so difficult, this time? Had thirteen years of relative safety caused me to go soft? Had I lost the skills I needed to be an effective spy—to stay alive? Has some part of me believed, against all logic and the Old Fool's assurances, that the Dark Lord was really gone for good? I had known the Mark had been coming back for months, and both the Old Fool and the Potter Brat had been telling anyone who would listen that _he_ would return. I had definitely expected this; so why, then, was I so surprised that it had happened? Why was this event, not unexpected or unforeseen, causing a panic in me the kind of which I had not experienced in thirteen years?

_Fuck._

I closed my eyes and sat down in my favorite armchair. The Old Fool had at least allowed me to wait for the end of the third task in my office instead of watching it with the rest of the school. I took some deep breaths and tried to clear my mind, but thoughts of death and pain kept floating across the surface of my brain, like leaves blown across water by a gentle breeze. No, more forceful than that; it was more like a sudden gust of wind during a storm that knocks trees to the ground, and, try as I might, I couldn't keep them from crashing down and crushing me.

_Fuck._

If I never manage to _calm__down_, would there really be any point in going back to the Dark Lord's side? Why should I even return, if all that awaited me was a slow, painful death? Sure, if I _didn't_ return, I would be hunted down and killed like a wild animal, but what was stopping me from killing myself? It would save them the trouble, and save _me_ the pain and humiliation. Not returning would be suicide, but if I returned without controlling this blind panic, I would be killed, all the same. Was there really any reason not to just kill myself, right here and now?

_Fuck._

Of course, that's when I remembered my _fucking_ promise to the _fucking_ Old Fool that I would protect the _fucking_ Potter Brat from the _fucking_ Dark Lord because _fucking_ Lily gave her _fucking_ life to _fucking_ protect him. Suicide wasn't a _fucking_option. I had to at least _fucking_ try to _fucking_ trick my _fucking_ 'master' into _fucking_ thinking I was still his _fucking_ faithful _fucking_ slave, so that I could at least _try_ to fulfill my _fucking_ promise. Not even my _fucking_ death was under my _fucking_ control.

_Fuck._

Even more than a decade after her death, Lily Evans still had me wrapped around her little finger, as did the Old Fool, the Potter Brat, _and_ the Dark Lord. Between the four of them, they owned nearly every part of me: my heart, my body, my life, and my soul. The only part of me that was still in my own possession was my mind, and I couldn't even get control of _that_. I needed to hurry up and _clear__my__mind_, or I would be as good as dead. I knew I had the _ability_ to do it; I was just lacking the _determination_. I was allowing myself to be ruled by my emotions. I was being _weak_.

_Fuck._

If I returned to the Dark Lord in this state, I would be betraying them more than I would be if I were to just kill myself, right here and now. If the Dark Lord decided to probe my mind for information, everything the Old Fool had ever told me would be divulged. That would have actually been a serious concern if he had actually told me _anything__at__all_. The Old Fool has always known exactly what he needs to do to keep me around to do his bidding. It's like I'm a marionette, and he's holding the strings; he dangles me over the fire and gives me scissors, but not before making sure I know I'm not the only one who will die if I cut myself free. He's always so careful not to give me the slightest excuse to end it, because he knows I will at the first chance I get, but he never bothers trying to give me a reason to _want_ to stay alive.

_Fuck._

I opened my eyes and realized that I had been sitting there for more than twenty minutes. If anything, I was even more panicked now than I had been when I had first sat down, and somehow I had added anger and grief to the mix. The question had changed from, 'Should I risk taking a Calming Draught?' to 'Will a Calming Draught be strong enough?'

_Fuck._

I walked to the storeroom and mindlessly grabbed a small phial of Calming Draught, afraid to take anything stronger. As I drank the entire phial in one gulp, I heard the distant sound of a cheering crowd, signaling the end of the third task. Someone (most likely the Potter Brat) had emerged from the maze. The tournament was over; it was time for me to go.

_Fuck._

The Calming Draught had not had time to take effect, yet, and I knew I couldn't leave until it did. I walked back into my office, closed the door behind me, and sat back down in the armchair. I tried much more seriously to clear my mind, then. Even though the potion had yet to kick in, the mere knowledge that it would dampen my fears made it easier to banish my worries. I took some deep breaths and focused solely on my breathing. I knew the Old Fool would come and get me when the time came for me to leave. I thought about the story I would tell the Dark Lord, so that I would be sure not to falter in it. The thought of once again living a life forged by nothing but layers upon layers of a million lies, stories, and half-truths caused a fresh wave of panic to wash over me.

_Fuck._

This time, instead of attempting to push the panic away, I accepted it completely, until it ceased to be an emotion and, instead, became a part of my very being; it was still present, but it would no longer hinder my Occlumency. That was good; the Dark Lord would be suspicious if he didn't sense fear. I repeated the process with my anger, but pushed the grief away. It would do more harm than good to allow the Dark Lord to know I still mourned Lily's death. Pushing the grief away was far more difficult than it should have been.

_Fuck_.

Once I finally finished dealing with each of my emotions, I concentrated on my story. _I__remained__at__Hogwarts__because__the__Old__Fool_trusted_me,__and__I__took__advantage__of__that__trust._ I thought the same sentence again and again, until it became the absolute truth, and then moved on to the next one. _I'm__willing__to__give__you__all__the__information__I've__collected__over__the__last__thirteen__years._ After that, _My__loyalty__has__never__wavered_. _I__never__looked__for__you__because__I__was__confident__you__could__return__without__my__help,__it__was__more__important__to__retain__the__Old__Fool's__trust_. _I'm__eager__to__start__killing,__again_. _I__will__kill__the__Potter__Brat,__if__you__would__like__me__to_. _I__want__to__clear__the__school__of__the__Mudbloods__the__Old__Fool__has__let__in_. _I__don't__care__about__the__red-haired__Mudblood,__anymore__…_

_Fuck._

Once I fought down the fresh wave of grief, I began focusing on the half-truths; they were easier to 'believe,' so I only had to think them a few times each before they became true. _I__never__denounced__you;__I__just__allowed__the__Old__Fool__do__it__for__me_. _I__would__have__aided__you__in__obtaining__the__Philosopher's__Stone__if__I__had__known__it__was__you__and__not__merely__Quirrel__trying__to__get__it_. _I__hate__the__Potter__Brat__and__the__Old__Fool_. _I__will__do__anything__for__you_. _I__have__helped__raise__the__Young__Malfoy__in__a__way__that__will__make__him__loyal__to__you_…

_Fuck._

I was a bit worried that the last one was quite a bit more than merely _half_-true. I pushed the worry away until it no longer existed, but not before writing the single word, "Draco," on a piece of spare parchment to remind myself to deal with the issue, at a later time. I could keep the worry at bay, temporarily, but the problem would not resolve itself.

_Fuck._

I began reminding myself of the truths that I needed to reveal, but before I even finished thinking the first one, there was a knock on my office door.

_Fuck._

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>_  
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	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, it wasn't the Old Fool at the door; it was the Uptight Cat coming to fetch some Veritaserum to use to interrogate the Crouch Boy. This made things exponentially more difficult for me, as it did nothing but cause the Dark Lord to be angrier _and_ more suspicious of me than he already was. It _did_ give me more time to prepare myself, but at this point, that isn't much of an advantage; the longer I take, the less he will trust me, and the harder he will work to invalidate my lies.

Now I am hurrying toward the castle gates, speeding toward the Apparition point that will allow me to leave Hogwarts and rejoin the Dark Lord's side. Never before have I so wished for the ability to alter my own personal reality; but I can't. I'm stuck in this world, and I can't join a new one.

The moment I pass through the gate, I stop and lean up against it with closed eyes. I take a few deep breaths, making sure my mind is completely clear. I have to ensure I can do this more quickly in the future. I can't take four hours to arrive every time I'm called. Finally, I stand up straight and turn on the spot, letting the Mark guide my way and not knowing where I'll end up.

I land in a graveyard, of all places. If he kills me here, at least no one else will have to see the body. I scoff at the idea, knowing my dead body is going to be put on display like a hunting trophy; destroyed and demeaned, like a stag's head, stuffed and mounted on the wall for all to see.

But that is unimportant, right now. I have arrived in the place from which the Dark Lord called, but the Dark Lord is not here, and there is no obvious sign of his current whereabouts. I am alone in the graveyard, and I have no way to find the Dark Lord.

Thinking fast, I point my wand up and the sky and shout, "_Morsmordre!_" in the hopes that he is still near enough to see or sense the spell. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the door of a house on the distant hillside open, the light from within bleeding out onto the hill below. The door closes again, and I know at once that the Dark Lord has noticed the mark in the sky, and is answering my call. I'm not sure whether I want to sigh in relief or scream in terror. I sit down on a headstone and wait.

The Dark Lord is barely near enough for me to see his outline when the first curse hits me. It's an agony beyond words, beyond thoughts, beyond _sensation_. I barely have enough thought left to force my twitching and convulsing muscles to throw me away from the headstone as the unimaginable anguish overcomes me.

After what seems like an eternity, the inconceivable pain fades away just as suddenly as it started. I stand up without being asked before kneeling and kissing the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. I stand up straight, but refuse to look into his eyes.

"Severus, you are as sneaky as ever," he says quietly. "That curse should have made you smash your skull against the gravestone. If you were anyone else, you'd be dead, right now."

"Was that you're intention, my Lord, to kill me?" I ask flatly.

"You've left my service; you didn't return. You're a dead man," he breathes.

"Yet you chose to torture me rather than dealing the final blow," I say, finally shifting my gaze to his crimson eyes. "You said yourself that you knew I would be able to shove away from that grave. At the very least, you're interested in an explanation as to why I am late."

"There are many scenarios in which you are allowed to survive the first blow that still have a…grim ending," he says coolly.

"Of course there are, but not killing me immediately means that you have a reason not to do so," I say.

He laughs a laugh that fills me with apprehension and chills my blood to ice; I remain motionless.

"Severus, are you trying to make me kill you?" he asks; he is still speaking in the same emotionless tone. He isn't really interested in my answer, but I respond, regardless.

"If you plan to kill me, then there isn't a thing I can do that will change your mind; if you plan to let me live, then you have a use for me, and you won't kill me unless I give you a much better reason to want me dead," I say, my gaze upon his face never faltering.

He laughs again, and I struggle not to visibly shudder.

"I can't help but wonder who's manipulating whom, here, Severus," he muses, more to himself than to me. "You always seem to be one step ahead of me, no matter the circumstances."

I force a small smile, feigning nonchalance.

"I can't say I'm unhappy that you perceive me as such, my Lord, but I assure you, it is not the case," I say smoothly. "I am merely a quick thinker with a thing for power, even when I don't quite deserve it. You are many steps ahead of me, my Lord."

He laughs again, seeming even more relaxed than he had earlier. I would believe the façade if his wand wasn't still raised. He is treating me more like a friend than a follower.

He takes a step forward so that he is near enough to touch me. His eyes narrow. His entire demeanor shifts; I'm not longer a friend, I'm not even a follower, I am now about as important to him as the scum on the bottom of his shoe. Very slowly, he raises the wand to my throat; it's impossible to discern whether he intends to use it to kill or to torture, if it's even his intention to use it at all.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," he hisses. "If it's good enough, _maybe_ I will allow you to live a little longer."

"I have more than a decade's worth of information on Dumbledore and four years' worth on Potter. And I can get more, if I am allowed to live," I say hurriedly; my voice sounds a bit strangled due to the wand pressing up against my windpipe.

"Even though you returned to me?

"That's why I was late. I was waiting for Dumbledore's permission to leave."

He leans forward and presses the wand deeper into my throat, nearly cutting off my air supply. I have to struggle against my instincts to take a step backward.

"Dumbledore knows?"

"Well what did you expect when you kidnapped his favourite student?"

I immediately regret my sarcasm. I brace for the curse I know is coming.

"_Crucio!_"

I crumple to the ground in pain as the Dark Lord takes a step backward; he didn't need to. I have enough control over myself that I wouldn't have hit him. Even in this unbearable agony, I have enough control.

When the pain finally fades, he steps forward and leans over me, preventing me from standing back up.

"Don't fool around with me, Severus. You know that's not what I meant. Why does Dumbledore know you're here?"

"The old fool still thinks I'm spying on you for him, and not the other way around. I didn't want to waste the opportunities that trust gives by losing it. That's also why I'm late."

He laughs again and steps back.

"Get up," he says. It's not a command; it's an offer, telling me I can stand if I wish to. He's treating me as a friend, again.

I stand.

"The problem with you, Severus, is that I'm never quite sure if I can believe you," he says; he is still smiling, but he is completely mirthless, now. "You're fooling one of us, how do I know it isn't me?"

"Look for yourself, My Lord," I offer. "I hide nothing from you."

"You know as well as I do that your Occlumency is flawless," he says. "You are able to fool me, if you wish to. Mere Legilimency is not enough for me to be convinced."

_Fuck._

_Here comes the torture._

He suddenly rushes forward and grabs the front of my robes to keep me up.

"Keep your eyes open or die," he hisses.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!_

"_Crucio!_"

The curse is weaker than the first two, but that is only a minor salvation. The pain is still far too powerful to be adequately described by the English language. I struggle to keep my eyes open and focus solely on the pain. I vaguely notice thoughts and memories being pulled to the forefront of my brain, but I don't have enough mind left to know which ones they are. I do not allow myself to worry about it; it would do nothing but cause the Dark Lord suspicion.

When the pain is finally over, the assault on my mind continues. Memories flit through my mind in such quick succession that it is impossible for my still pain-addled brain to comprehend what each of them is. I cannot prevent a small sliver of fear from infiltrating my thoughts. Almost immediately, the mental attack ceases and I am thrown to the ground.

"What are you afraid of me finding in your head, Severus?" he asks dangerously.

"Nothing, My Lord," I say quickly; I remain on the ground, knowing better than to stand up without permission.

"_Crucio!_"

The curse is short, but far more powerful than those which were cast earlier. I am completely unable to retain any control over my body.

When the pain fades, I am temporarily disoriented. I barely recognize my surroundings.

"Don't lie, Severus, I felt your fear, myself," he hisses. If I didn't know better, I'd think he's slipped into Parseltongue. "Give me an explanation or be killed right here and now."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

"Permission to stand, My Lord?" I ask, opening my eyes but not making eye contact. "If you're going to kill me, I'd rather die standing up."

"Is that an admission of guilt?" he asks, wand still raised.

"No," I say simply.

He hesitates.

"You may stand," he says finally.

Slowly, I rise to my feet, head bowed. My heart races.

"Now explain yourself. What don't you want me to know?"

"I was rather fonder of Lily Potter than I would like you to know," I admit quietly. "After her death, I was…quite resentful of you. I truly considered switching sides, for a while. I got over it, but my memories from that time are…not something I would like you to see, to say the least. I was afraid you would see them and not give me the chance to explain."

"Why didn't you say this earlier?"

"Slipped my mind," I say. The words are barely out of my mouth before he attacks them.

"Nothing ever slips your mind, Severus," he growls.

"My mind has aged thirteen years since you last saw me, My Lord," I say smoothly. "It's a bit more…slippery than it used to be. I apologize. Slip-ups are rare, but they do happen."

"How much use will you be if you 'slip' like this?"

"I assure you, it doesn't happen often."

"I'll believe if when I see it," he mutters.

_Fuck._

He points to one of the largest headstones in the graveyard.

"Over there, arms out," he orders. "I'm suck of holding you up."

"I have never consented to being restrained, I don't intend to start now."

"I'm not—"

He cuts off when I step over to a shorter headstone nearby and lean forward, placing my hands on it. I cast a spell that melds my shoes to the ground.

"I'll stand," I say firmly. "No restraints."

"You are as stubborn as ever."

"Of course. What did you expect? I'm even less opposed to dying _now_ than I was thirteen years ago, My Lord. Why should I start jumping through hoops to stay alive, now? Torture me on my terms or kill me on yours, it doesn't much matter to me; but I won't be of much use to you if I'm dead.

His wand presses against my chest; my heart rate doubles.

"I won't be gentle, just because you're standing on your own," he warns.

I look into his blood red eyes, determination never faltering, despite my undeniable fear.

"I expected no less," I growl.

"Fall over or close your eyes and your life will end before it is even over.

I nod, gaze never wavering.

"_Crucio!_"

The sudden urge to relinquish my hold on the headstone and curl up in a whimpering mass of agonized flesh is nearly impossible to resist. My heart pounds, my eyes water, and my body protests as I force myself to remain upright through the soul-rending torment. Every fiber of my being screams at me to close my eyes, let go, and crumple to the ground; to fall and merge with the graves beneath my feet. But I know I can't.

I feel thoughts and memories being forced to the front of my mind, more forcefully than before. One by one, they're slammed into the front of my skill before being thrown back, much too quickly for me to be able to identify them. There is no identifiable order to them; it's as if they're being pulled at random from my head, like a lottery.

Once again, the torture ends long before the attack on my thoughts. I struggle to remain steady on my feet as my deepest thoughts and feelings are violated. I catch a glimpse of Lily's face, and I'm suddenly hit with a pain very different from anything caused by Cruciatus. Almost instantly, the Dark Lord's hold on my thoughts relinquishes.

I allow my eyes to fall shut and my knees to collapse under me. My shoes are still attached to the ground, so my kneecaps slam against the headstone as they bend. I barely feel it; I know I am about to die. My shell has cracked. I keep my eyes shut, waiting for the end.

"Stand up, Severus," he says.

I am tempted to refuse, to not comply with his orders until he is forced to kill me quickly. My shell is broken; one true emotion has slipped through, breaking the airtight seal around my thoughts. I know it's nearly impossible for me to fix that, now that I'm in the Dark Lord's presence. I'm a dead man, and I know it. My heart pounds harder and faster than ever before. I want to just stay here, on the ground, and allow death to claim me, instead of playing along with any more of the Dark Lord's games. To give up now, rather than fighting a fight against fate, time, and the most evil creature the world has ever seen.

But I know I can't. I fucking _promised_. I have to, at the very least, try.

I reach forward, grabbing hold f the headstone and using it as leverage to pull myself up. My knees ache dully when supporting my weight, but I don't show any weakness by leaning on the headstone. I keep my eyes closed, but still stand facing the Dark Lord.

"Severus, why don't you open your eyes?" he asks. It really sounds like a question, but I know better; his voice is nearer than it should be.

"Because I know you are not finished testing me," I say. "If you don't stop, I'll go mad. I'm not going to let you do that to me," I lie smoothly.

"You _do_ remember the punishment for disobedience, don't you?" he asks.

"Death," I say, a small smile on my lips and laughter in my voice. "I'm not stupid, My Lord. But will you not kill me if I'm mad? If I'm about to die, I'd rather it be dignified."

"Dignified?" he scoffs. "You're standing on shaking legs in a graveyard with your feet attached to the ground. You're covered in dirt from the multiple times you've fallen over, and it's especially thick on your knees because you kneeled to kiss my robe. You've been tortured to the point of refusing to open your eyes for fear of losing your mind. You mourn a Mudblood who died nearly fifteen years ago. The only reason you're even here is that you are my _slave_. Do you have any dignity left?"

As he spoke, his already too-near voice slowly moved toward me. Now he is so near that I can feel his breath on my face. I take a deep breath and open my eyes, slowly and deliberately.

"Of course I do," I growl. "And I refuse to give it to you."

I look into his blood red eyes for a few more seconds before submitting and turning away.

"Are you done with me?" I ask quietly; I'm not ignorant of the double meaning of my words.

"Not quite," he says. "Look at me again, I am not finished."

"No, I'll go mad."

"Your mind has had time to recover, now," he says. "Are you trying to hide something?"

"Of course not, My Lord," I say. "My mind has aged since we last met; it takes a lot longer for me to recover."

"I don't believe you."

I can no longer do anything to help myself. There is nothing I can say, nothing I can think, and nothing I can do that will save me from my fate. My Occlumency is as strong as I'm going to be able to make it. I'm like a student before the final exam, and my survival is the subject; I have a feeling that I didn't study enough.

I turn my head to look back toward him, but close my eyes again, considering my options.

"Open your eyes," he says coolly.

"Just kill me now," I say, keeping them closed.

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to die, either way, and I'd rather my death was dignified."

"No," he growls. "You don't get to take a shortcut. If you're going to die here, then you will die here, and you can rest assured that there will be absolutely no dignity in it. Now, open your eyes and prepare for the humiliation of having your deepest secrets revealed."

_Fuck._

He is no longer willing to compromise. He is no longer willing to listen to anything I say. In this moment, he owns all of me. My heart, my body, my life, my soul, _and_ my mind belong to the Dark Lord, and it is up to me whether or not I (and Lily, and the Old Fool, and the Potter Brat) will get them back. I am tempted by the wand in my pocket. Just two words, and I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore; I wouldn't be _able_ to worry about _anything_.

But, if I ended it now, he would own me forever. I can't bear the thought. I can't give him that satisfaction. I'm too proud to allow it.

I turn my head down, so I'm looking at the headstone in front of me and open my eyes. Slowly, deliberately, _defiantly_, I place my hands on it, again, to help keep myself steady, and raise my head to look into his eyes.

Without opening my mouth, I think a phrase forcefully, making sure he can 'hear' it just as well as if I said it aloud. I know it's reckless to mock him, but I cannot resist the temptation.

_Yes,_ My Lord.

A slight smile appears on the Dark Lord's lipless mouth and his shoulders lose a minute amount of tension that I hadn't realized was there.

"So you haven't changed too much, in the last thirteen years," he says lightly. "Your tempter is just harder to provoke. Good to know; I admit, I was a bit worried that you weren't the man you used to be.

"_Crucio!_"

I'm not quite prepared, but it doesn't really matter; there is no real preparation for this. My whole body is pain and my whole mind is a book, the pages being ripped out and burned, one by one.

I know in mere moments that this one wasn't going to end early. He is going to keep this curse on me until he is finished searching my thoughts; my sanity is none of his concern. That is up to me to maintain.

I focus hard on the thoughts being ripped from my head; they're like a fishing line, pulling me to my doom, but keeping me from falling. I'm happy with anything that keeps the pain from consuming me completely.

Each memory he pulls from my head is more personal than the last. He lingers on the humiliating ones, regardless of their relevancy, in an attempt to provoke me. It doesn't bother me; not enough of my mind is available to _be_ provoked, the pain is too great.

The physical and mental attacks continue far longer than they should. It's not long before I can feel myself slipping. Slipping in my thoughts, slipping with my will power, slipping out of consciousness, slipping away from myself. But, still, it continues; I can tell he feels me slipping, but he wants to push my limit. I can't blame him for wanting to test me, but fear and self-preservation still slip into my thoughts. I can no longer focus on the wild river of my memories. I've fallen off the fishing line keeping me in reality. I'm washing away in the pain…

And then it stops, and I'm back in the graveyard, leaning against the headstone, staring into a pair of blood red eyes. My whole body feels numb. No matter how deeply I breathe, I feel as though I'm not getting any air.

"You are welcome to join us, inside, if you wish," he says, wearing what is, presumably, supposed to be a warm smile.

I hide my sigh of relief in my continued gasps for breath. I have passed. I will live to sleep in my own bed for at least one more night.

"No thank you, My Lord," I manage to gasp out. "I need to get back to the castle, or people will grow suspicious."

"I thought Dumbledore knew you were here?"

"He's not the only person in the castle," I pant. "Most students don't know about my past, and it would make things easier if I kept it that way," I pause for an almost imperceptible moment. "And I _know_ you have expensive wine in there, and I would much rather I'm able to Apparate back without splinching."

"Very well," he says. He turns to leave.

"Wait!"

He turns his head toward me, but his body remains turned away.

"Yes?"

"What would you like me to tell Dumbledore?"

He shrugs.

"There's no point in hiding anything from him, yet," he says. "Tell him whatever you wish."

He turns his head back and walks away without another word.

I stand in the graveyard, leaning against the headstone, until I've caught my breath. My body is still mostly numb, but I know the numbness won't be going away anytime soon, so I detach my shoes from the ground and take a few cautious steps. Once I'm confident in my sense of equilibrium, I turn on the spot and Apparate right outside the gates of Hogwarts.

As I pull the gate open, I close my eyes and mutter under my breath.

"Let the dance begin."

* * *

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